


Burn

by flashindie



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie





	Burn

The thing is, Ryan, he isn’t a girl, woman, queen. 

Ryan doesn’t pray for romance; doesn’t count his miracles in flower petals or piano ballads or chirping birds on his windowsill. He doesn’t sing his hallelujahs to commitment and anniversaries, rings or words and most of all, most of all, he doesn’t believe in shouting from the rooftops, chat shows, living rooms.

Ryan believes in privacy. 

Ryan wouldn’t admit it, not for real, but he believes in intimacy too. Believes that it’s only possible when it’s the saving grace of his own loneliness, when it’s something to clutch at with wide eyes and desperate fingers. 

There’s a pattern now, a stride, and when the lights flicker out on the bus, his bunk curtain draws open like the start of a show, like Ryan’s the main event, and Brendon slips into his role too easily. In beneath the sheets until his body is solid, warm against Ryan’s slight frame and this isn’t anything, not when Ryan turns to meet him, not when Brendon presses warm lips to Ryan’s collarbone and inches his hand over Ryan’s waist.

He slides up Ryan’s shirt, presses his fingers against Ryan’s ribs, cool to the touch, and Ryan breathes in too hard, coarse, rolls his eyes to the roof of the bunk and then back to Brendon, doesn’t fight the smile pulling at his lips.

“’Morning,” he mumbles, and Brendon kisses Ryan, just once, a peck. Ryan passes him the smile, hands it over like a prize and shy’s away, buries his face into the pillow and Brendon follows, kisses him for real this time and Ryan moves an arm enough to bury a hand in Brendon’s hair.

The thing is, they’ve maybe been doing this for so long now, too long, and it’s grown up with them, gone from something that flickered and sparked with awkward limbs and bright eyes to something that burned like a constant, warmed beneath the surface and coaxed both of them to maturity. 

Ryan doesn’t count his blessings, not when they seethe in the pit of his stomach like firecrackers, like something waiting to be lit. Ryan doesn’t count anything, and he doesn’t need to, not as long as it doesn’t stop.


End file.
